


A Divine Something

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Series: A Divine Something [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blasphemy, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Rick has a wing kink, Supernatural Elements, Virgin Daryl Dixon, copious amounts of swearing courtesy of Daryl Dixon, humor and smut, literal angel Daryl Dixon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 09:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18221450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: In which a supply run goes about as well as anyone can expect and Rick almost gets them both killed for a bunch of tampons. Luckily, Daryl's quite efficient at saving his ass like it's his job. Because it is. Literally. He's got the angel wings to prove it, feathers and all.





	A Divine Something

**Author's Note:**

> The idea comes from watching Daryl save Rick's ass too many times during the course of the show. It's sponsored by Daryl's angel wing vest. Obviously.

Rick Grimes is a literal nightmare.

Daryl would know. He’s an expert on nightmares. He’s had them for a long time, some less bearable than others, most of them leftovers from his fucked up childhood. He deals with those in his own way: by bottling them up and pretending they don’t exist. He’s not doing it because he’s too scared of facing his childhood demons or exposing the scars on his body, but because even after two years of this shit, he’s not yet adjusted to the thought of having had a childhood. Or a body. In comparison to either, having nightmares is just a mild inconvenience. But he has them, and he knows them very intimately. And he knows with a considerable amount of certainty that Rick Grimes is a goddamn fucking nightmare.

“I’ll draw them away, you grab the supplies. We’ll meet up at the car,” the literal goddamn fucking nightmare says, his blue eyes all serious and his face all solemn. He always does this.

“Yer not motherfucking sacrificin’ yerself fer a buncha’ tampons, ya lil’ shit,” Daryl wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead, he just grunts in acknowledgment of the stupid, moronic plan. Truth is, they need these supplies. It’s the only reason the two of them are currently all alone in an abandoned pharmacy which was only half-looted sometime after this whole fake-ass apocalypse thing started: the women desperately need their hygiene products, Judith needs diapers, teething rings and ingredients for baby goo or whatever it is she ingests daily, all of them need medicine and supplements. The fact that there’s half a goddamn herd of walkers occupies the building, shambling about, groaning menacingly and being generally disgusting is simply great. Daryl needed them like a hole in his head. It’s like the whole world is conspiring against him when all he’s trying to do is keep Rick fucking Grimes safe like it’s his job. Because it really is. It’s literally what he was born to do.

He allows Rick-fucking-Grimes to go on with his ridiculously idiotic plan. When the thirty-something walkers follow that fucking disaster of a man out the door and into the setting sun where it’s likely there's even more of them awaiting their chance to grab some fresh human sashimi, Daryl says a mostly silent prayer for divine intervention sprinkled with some old-fashioned southern-accented blasphemy and grabs everything semi-useful that he can find. There’s pads and tampons and something called _menstrual cups_ that he doesn’t even try to imagine how it’s used. It all goes to the duffel bag. So do the packets of baby food and jars of medicine he doesn’t even check the use for. He supposes it’s all gonna be useful for one thing or another. Once all’s collected, Daryl closes the zipper on the bag and checks the incredibly long-lived clock on the wall to see if enough time’s passed for him to not look suspicious when he runs out there to save Rick’s ass again. It’s been six seconds. That’s pushing it, but then again, Rick’s being chased by a goddamn herd of Hell’s rotting abominations, so he might not notice if Daryl’s moving a little bit too fast, or that he has giant-ass wings. He sure as fuck never noticed those before.

It’s not so fucking easy to aim with the crossbow when he’s got a bag on his arm, but Daryl’s beaten worse odds before. He’s incredibly good at improvisation and even better at saving Rick-fucking-Grimes’ ass, so he improvises when he’s out of arrows - bolts - whatever the fuck they are, and he smashes a walker’s head with the crossbow not a second to soon, right before its jaws can close around a particularly delicious-looking patch of Rick’s skin right there in the juncture of the shoulder and collarbone.

“Gonna fuckin’ kill ye meself,” he wants to say, but doesn’t. It would be an empty threat because he literally cannot hurt Rick even if he wanted to and besides, there’s more important things to concentrate on at the moment, such as the god-fucking-damned geeks doing their best to get a bite out of Rick. Or him. Neither option is particularly appealing. So instead of issuing death threats he has no intention to deliver on, Daryl focuses on killing as many walkers as he can while also using his impressive wing-span to shield Rick from roaming claws and errant teeth. In the dimming light of dusk, it’s easy enough to hide the extra appendages from human sight, so he’s not apologetic about using them at all, even if they feel awful covered in all kinds of rotting gore. It’s going to be a goddamn chore to clean them all by himself later. They’re too fucking big to fit comfortably in the shower stall. He'll have to find a river or lake again, and it's gonna be cold and miserable. It's all the goddamn walkers' fault.

Between Daryl’s fiery determination and Rick’s lack of survival instinct but a surprising affinity for melee combat, they dispose of the walkers blocking their way in good time. Daryl falls slightly behind Rick, folding his wings with a grimace even as he’s pushing the man in front of him as they run to the car. To Daryl’s wondrous astonishment, the car starts right away and the two of them drive away into the sunset, leaving the decimated herd behind. If the fact they actually made it wasn’t a miracle in and of itself, Daryl would absolutely hate that Rick has the audacity to look pleased with himself all the way back to Alexandria. As it is, he’s busy with a silent _thank you_ prayer which he supposes isn’t half bad even if he came up with the words by himself. It says, _O mighty Father who art not in Heaven at present but should generally be there, thanks for keepin’ this stupid goddamn dumbass alive one more motherfucking day, ain’t ye da real MVP,_ and it’s really full of gratitude where it lacks in finesse and poetry. He’s not sure the blasphemy is strictly necessary, but hey, whole thing’s more emotional and sincere this way. He’s pretty sure the Guy Upstairs doesn’t mind much, anyway, wherever He is now. If He did, Daryl wouldn’t have been half as successful in his task so far.

“You get everything we needed?” Rick asks, looking at Daryl and his deceptively small duffel bag which could actually fit an entire house if Daryl wanted it to, roof, porch and all.

“Got wha’cha almost died fer,” Daryl says, shrugging his shoulders in feigned indifference which isn’t very successful in masking how irritated he is. “Tampons, man. Anyone ever tell ya yer a stupid fuck?”

“You have, a few times,” Rick replies, grinning like a madman. The look works well with his beard. It's been a while since he shaved it. Daryl thinks it suits him better than the clean-shaven look from back when they first arrived in Alexandria. “I ought to be insulted.”

“Insulted my ass,” Daryl mutters unhappily. He indulges in a bad habit of his body which is biting his thumb and then rubbing the rigged cuticles against his lips. The mild pain is grounding. Helps him not freak out after a near-death experience. _Rick’s_ near-death experience. He’s not very bothered by his own. He’s pretty sure he’s immortal, anyway, or at least close to it.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re cute?” Rick asks fondly.

Daryl throws a lollipop at him. He’s doesn’t even know when and where he picked it up. Probably in the pharmacy, sometime between pretending he doesn’t hate Rick’s bitch-ass plans and pretending he’s not a literal guardian angel sent from Good Lord’s Heaven, fully devoted to ensuring Rick’s safety in this fucked up world. He sure does a lot of pretending. The lollipop is pink. Rick definitely doesn’t moan in an exaggerated fashion, his stupidly blue eyes rolling back in clearly faked pleasure as he pops the piece of candy into his mouth. Daryl definitely doesn’t stare at him in pure wonderment like he’s just seen the Second Coming itself. That’s because Rick Grimes is a _motherfucking goddamn idiot_ and a _nightmare_ , and Daryl’s torn between wanting to either choke him or stab him. With his dick. It’s becoming a problem.

Everything about this man is a problem.

“Ain’t never gonna save yer ass again,” Daryl warns, glaring at Rick and biting on his thumb with vengeance. It almost works as a means to hide that he’s blushing. He can't help it if dirty thoughts make him want to curl up somewhere dark in overwhelming shame. He's a fucking angel, he's not even supposed to have dirty thoughts. He's not supposed to have a gender to begin with. He didn't have that two years ago. Kinda. Well. Daryl Dixon had that. Daryl-the-angel didn't.

It's complicated, but the story is, back when the second Dixon brat was about to be born, the guy in charge of putting souls in human babies kinda fucked up and came up one soul short. Daryl-the-angel was in the right place at the right time and ended up sort of splitting into two entities, one of which got roped into becoming a mortal man by the name of Daryl Dixon. The other part, the angel part, was appointed as Rick Grimes' guardian soon afterwards and followed Rick Grimes anywhere he went. Coincidentally, the two halves of the angelic spirit reunited and merged into one fucked up cocktail of endless frustration, bad manners, lousy grammar and big-ass wings about the time Rick Grimes and Daryl Dixon first met. It's all part of the Divine... Well, not Plan, everyone knows there's no Divine Plan, or if there were, surely someone would've found it by now. The Old Man Upstairs surely would've written it down somewhere before He went and fucked off, leaving the whole mess behind to frolic around in the Outer Worlds or whatever the fuck it is the God Almighty does when He's retired. So, not the Divine Plan. But it's definitely Divine Something.

Thinking about it makes Daryl's head hurt, so he doesn't.

“You're always gonna save my ass,” Rick tells him with a smile which Daryl's learned to recognize as _trouble_. Well, more trouble. Because the only time he thought Rick wasn't in any position to get into any mischief was back when the man was still in a coma. Daryl hated that Rick got shot, thought it a personal failure really, even if he did his absolute best to make the wound non-lethal; but he completely _loved_ every minute out of the quiet weeks which followed. He'd spent them curled up in the corner of Rick's hospital room, napping and lazing about like all the guardian angels of _normal_ people get to do all the time. And then the fucking fake-ass apocalypse started.

Daryl is reasonably sure this dead walking business is not the prophesied end of times. If it were, wouldn't someone important have informed him? Like, more important than the higher ups. Best would be a direct message from the Guy Upstairs. Seems most legitimate, right, that He'd get the news out to His subordinates through some sort of celestial radio or, whatever, a Divine Homing Beacon. But that never happened, not for Daryl anyway, and it's rather unlikely that he's the only angel around that's missed the memo. Plus, the walkers hardly seem like the work of any of the Four. He could've thought Pestilence for a moment there, but no. Too messy. Pestilence is a scientist, not a goddamn butcher. So Daryl's pretty much convinced this whole thing is not the apocalypse as was foretold. If he were to take a guess, he'd suspect demons and he'd likely be right because when there's trouble, there's always demons.

It's irrelevant either way. He's way past being pissed at whoever's decided to unleash the disgusting horror upon the world. If anything, it's given him leeway to bend some rules and downright break some others in order to keep Rick safe. Because as it is, when everyone Up There's so sure this is actually the end of the world and that means the giant war between the Holy Army and the Battalions of Hell is afoot, then nobody cares much if a random guardian angel slows the passage of time here, heals an injury there or falls in love with their ward like a complete tool.

Rick is looking at him expectantly and Daryl grunts something non-committal, pretending he isn't so completely devoted to saving Rick's ass – or any other part of him – that it's not even funny. It's not like he's spent the last two years doing exactly that. By which he means it totally is, and also he's fucking pathetic.

Everything is going peachy and they're no more than a fifteen minutes drive away from Alexandria when all of a sudden, a walker appears on the road out of nowhere and Rick loses control over the car. They crash and Daryl sees what will happen before it pans out: Rick thrown through the broken windshield and squashed between the tree and the car, his body broken beyond recognition, lifeless, and then the car explodes-

He won't let it happen, he won't, so he grabs Rick by the shoulders and unfurls his wings as he throws the both of them out of the car and then curls his wings around the both of them as a shield against the explosion. Scraps of hot metal and splatters of boiling oil hit his wings, wounding them but never breaking the protective barrier they're making. It hurts like a motherfucker and Daryl's pretty sure he's going to weep like a pussy, but Rick's safe and alive in his arms and that's everything that matters-

He blacks out.

When he opens his eyes next, he's no longer outdoors. The room he's in looks like the inside of a barn at best, but at least it's dry, not extremely uncomfortable and doesn't stink too much. His duffel bag is on the ground behind his head, serving as a serviceable pillow thanks to the mostly squishy quality of feminine hygiene products. His wings are outstretched and with a grimace, Daryl realizes he can't fold them because they hurt too much and anyway, he doesn't have the energy to as much as make them twitch. They're cleaned of all that gore and blood, though, and some of the most grievous injuries are wrapped in bandages. Daryl frowns, because he definitely doesn't remember doing that.

“You know, I'm kinda hoping for a good explanation,” Rick says and Daryl only then remembers that of course, Rick was with him, Rick is safe, Rick is not hurt, Rick is alive. Rick is also looking at the wings with obvious fascination. It makes Daryl strangely self-conscious. It's funny what being bound to human form can change; before, his wings were immense and carried him like the wind, like the currents of a storm. What they used to be is incomprehensible to the human perception, however, so the wings he has now are more like an embodiment of the concept of wings. They're large and powerful still, and their color is that of the dawn at the end of the world, but they're also limited to something somewhat plausible and logical. Something that abides to the laws of physics, if only marginally. They have feathers, for fuck's sake. What the fuck would an angel need feathers for? He's not a goddamn chicken.

“I mean, I always thought you looked kinda angelic when you smiled, but this? This is some weird-ass shit,” Rick tells him. He looks thoughtful before he asks. “Since when did you have them?”

Daryl scoffs and mumbles, “Always had 'em. Didn't wan'cha ta see.”

Rick nods. “Thought so. Pity you kept them hidden. They're pretty. Everything about you is pretty.”

“Ain't pretty,” Daryl protests tiredly. He's already starting to heal, but it takes a lot out of him. The wings, they drain power like some greedy bastards. But they're useful. They kept Rick safe. Daryl likes and appreciates them, stupid feathers, unreasonable weight holding him mostly immobile on the ground and all.

“Yeah, you are,” Rick argues pointlessly. Daryl squints up at him, tries to glare, but it doesn't work out too well. He's so goddamn exhausted.

“Oughta leave me 'ere, go back to the safe zone,” he mutters under his breath.

Rick's hand is warm when it touches his cheek. The affectionate gesture makes Daryl's heart ache.

“I ain't leaving you,” Rick promises softly. “I'm not gonna ever leave you, Daryl. Whatever the hell you are.”

“Heaven,” Daryl corrects him, mind focusing on completely irrelevant things. “Whatever the heaven. Don't confuse me wid'dem Hellspawn bastards,” he scoffs, mildly insulted.

“You're an angel, then?” Rick asks.

Daryl chuckles. He licks his lower lip and tries to move the wings. They still won't even twitch at his efforts. He contemplates what to tell Rick, wonders if there are any capital R regulations for this. He can't lie. That's the one rule he won't ever break if only because he's not physically capable of saying a lie. But should he tell the truth? It doesn't sound right. Mortals aren't supposed to know everything, Daryl thinks. He's not actually sure, nobody ever told him much about the Procedures Up There which is more or less the entire reason for why he's gone through this entire messy fucking ordeal with the _mortal body_ and shit, but it doesn't seem like something Up There would approve of. On the other hand, Daryl's had it up to there with the dicks with wings that call themselves his _celestial siblings_ or whatever other nonsensical name they've gone and came up with, and the way they have no fucking idea about what they're doing whatsoever.

Ah, to Hell with it.

“Yer very own guardian angel, tha's me,” he says and sighs. “Ain't bein' much useful now, though, not when them damn things a-busted like that.”

Rick doesn't speak for a long while after that, digesting the information or whatever the fuck it is he's thinking about, and Daryl finally dozes off, lulled into a dreamless sleep by the man's steady heartbeat resounding in the silence.

When he comes to again, it's still dark and he's incredibly warm. There's a weight wrapped all around him and it takes a moment for Daryl to realize it's Rick-fucking-Grimes holding him in his arms, careful not to disturb Daryl's damaged wings. Rick's breathing is slow and regular, but he's not asleep. Daryl can tell because Rick is staring at him with his stupidly pretty blue eyes. What's up with that? Men have no business having eyes this pretty.

“Are all angels like you?” Rick asks when he notices Daryl is awake and focused on him. He sounds vaguely like a curious kid even though his voice is deep and somewhat growl-y, very nice, very distracting.

Huh.

“Nah,” Daryl mutters, scrunching up his nose in annoyance because number one, Rick is so close some private parts of Daryl's obviously malfunctioning mortal body are getting very interested in getting to know him better and number two, fuck this, he's nothing like the others.

He elaborates. “Ain't like them, ain't nothing like them. Them's just a bunch'a stupid pricks who ain't got no idea what fuck all's goin' on anymore. Headless chickens, the whole lotta them. This entire _free will_ business not really workin' wonders up above,” he says. “Me, that's a completely different story. See, yea, I gotta wings an' all that, but also, I gotta childhood, fucked up as it was. Gotta bad fucking habits, like, man, ya seen me smokin', ya know the stuff I do. Them guys, they ain't even got a goddamn _accent_ , ya know? All of them's proper grammer an' shit. Used to know right away when they used Merle to talk to me, old guy knew maybe half the words they woulda made him say.”

“They used Merle? Like... _before_ , or?” Rick asks.

Daryl huffs a laugh. It hurts a little. He wonders if his ribs are broken. Probably not. Maybe they were at first, but he heals fast. Like, very fast. “Nope. All after. Ain't never known Merle before,” he mutters, frowns at how that's not true because Merle was most definitely his brother all along, and then explains his whole origin story without divulging too many details about the workings of the Up Above, because that wouldn't go over too well with whoever might be spying, he's sure. He's also careful not to mention any less-than-appropriate feelings he may or may not be having for his nightmare of a ward. Rick seriously doesn't need that on his plate.

“That's one helluva story,” Rick concludes, shaking his head. He's taking all of this in stride and he's handling it pretty well, considering. Daryl's expected the man to call bullshit about seven times already, but nothing like that is happening. This might be on account of the wings, still uselessly spread out under Daryl on the hay floor of the barn, still very much visible and tangible with their stupid feathers. They're kinda making a very obvious point of their own, there. Would be difficult to explain them and call Daryl's entire story a lie at the same time.

Rick laughs suddenly. Daryl looks at him and waits for him to explain.

“So, your vest,” Rick says and pokes Daryl's side where said vest's lacing is. His eyes are twinkling with amusement.

Daryl snorts. “Shut up,” he grumbles, but it's lacks any vitriol. He's always wanted somebody to catch on the joke. Figures that it'd be Rick-fucking-Grimes.

“So, are you like,” Rick begins saying and pauses. He looks at Daryl expectantly. Daryl looks back, bemused.

“What?” He asks.

Rick huffs. “You know,” he says and motions in the vague direction of Daryl's lower body. “Do you have a dick?”

“What the fuck, man,” Daryl swears and stares at him like the question is the stupidest thing he's ever heard. It's not. It's not even in the first one hundred. He's pretty sure the stupidest thing he's ever heard was Merle Dixon telling him how meth would fetch a pretty price during the apocalypse. That, or the stuck-up pricks from way up high using the same Merle's mouth to explain how there's a war coming now that the world's ended, so all guardian angel duties are suspended, return home and prepare to go to battle, blah blah, some stupid shit. Rick asking if he's got a dick is like, almost a valid, insightful question. Because up to about two years ago, the answer would've been very complicated.

“Well, do you?” Rick asks and licks his lips, stealing a glance down there like he's hoping to see through the loose fabric of Daryl's cargo pants.

Daryl is absolutely not blushing, because angels of the Lord don't blush even if backwater rednecks from rural Georgia do and he is kinda both at the same time. “Yes, for fuck's sake, I have a dick,” he snaps irritably. He's incredibly tempted to snap something else than just a reply. Like Rick's neck, for example.

“Good,” Rick says and leaves it at that.

They continue to lie there, Daryl barely able to move and also effectively pinned to the ground by Rick's surprisingly heavy body half atop of him. It's not even awkward, which is new. Almost weird. Daryl's had a lot of experience feeling awkward since both his personae fused into this one very confused package of frustration and cigarette smoke. Fuck, sometimes it's no better than at the beginning. Like, he still has these moments when he's not sure what to do with his big clumsy hands. Or when people tell him nice things and try to touch him, he acts like a total fool, all flushed and shy and absolutely not panicked except he kind of is. And those broad shoulders everyone seems to ogle all the time, the way they don't really fit into clothes with sleeves. He's pretty sure they're only this broad to accommodate the wings, which makes no sense because the wings aren't even really attached to the mortal body in a physical sense, even if they look like they are. It's very metaphysical. And there's too many other things like that about him. Bodies are fucking complicated and the fact that Daryl Dixon was abused during his fucked up childhood makes this particular body all the more difficult to manage. Unless it's Rick. Rick can do anything to Daryl's body and it's fine.

And then,

“So, how come I’ve never seen your wings before,” Rick murmurs softly. He’s so close, his beard scratches the sensitive skin below Daryl’s ear when Rick’s mouth moves. Daryl suddenly feels light-headed and it's got nothing to do with his surprise at the turn of events. It's got everything to do with the blood rushing down to his dick. He might have a thing for Rick's beard, okay.

A moan escapes his lips when Rick rubs an experimental caress on one of the wings, near the base where it connects to the mortal body. Rick’s curious fingers brush over a spot which makes Daryl’s entire being almost catch on fire. It feels so good, too good, almost as if Rick knows what he’s doing, almost as if he’s a fucking expert on erogenous zones on angelic appendages, and Daryl's sure he should put a halt to this, but he can’t think of a reason why.

“’Tis alright? Want me to stop?” Rick asks, lips so unbearably close to Daryl’s ear he can feel the ghost of their heat. It takes a moment to process Rick’s question, with Rick’s fingers rubbing against that spot and Rick’s warm breath on his skin. Once he understands what Rick’s asking, though-

“God,” he exhales and then bites his lower lip to stop himself from making an embarrassingly needy noise when the fingers withdraw. He grabs Rick’s hand by the wrist and maneuvers it back where it was just now, hoping Rick will take the cue because he sure as Hell can’t speak, can’t say what he wants, he's not coherent anymore and his pathetic human brain is _fried_.

Rick gets it, though, and he doesn’t even hesitate a moment before he pushes his fingers through the feathers and rubs and _scratches_ with blunt fingernails against that same sensitive spot, and Daryl forgets all about embarrassment as his body trembles and he moans incoherently. His pants are uncomfortably tight and his entire skin feels tingly, strange but amazing all at the same time, and Daryl’s arms wrap around Rick’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Please,” he says and doesn’t even recognize his voice, it’s too breathy and needy and goddamn pathetic. Warmth spreads all over his face and down to his chest as he flushes. He catches the look in Rick’s eyes, piercing and dark and full of intent, and suddenly it hits him that this cannot be happening, this cannot be true. It’s too much, if he lets it happen, if he stomps all over the Laws and Rules and Regulations like this, surely someone will finally notice-

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Rick says against his lips and finally closes the last of the distance between them, and all reason flees from Daryl’s mind because _Rick Grimes is kissing him_ and it’s like being home, but more, like soaring across the vastness of the sky with no limits other than what he wants to be limited by, but still so, so much more. Rick’s lips are soft and his mouth is hot and eager, taking and taking, but giving as well. He presses his tongue between Daryl’s lips, demanding everything, and Daryl can’t do anything but grant it, making up for his inexperience with eager enthusiasm. And, fuck, had he known this would feel like this, like his entire existence before this was just an insignificant mess of events all leading up to this moment, maybe he would have acted sooner, maybe he would’ve done something to have Rick’s tongue in his mouth and Rick’s scent in his nostrils and Rick’s heartbeat against his chest a long time ago. But he didn’t, he didn’t, and now he’s not in control anymore, he doesn’t get a say in this, it's not his choice, but he's _willing_. So willing.

They break away for air Daryl doesn’t need as much as he needs Rick, and:

“Those wings of yours,” Rick whispers hotly against his jaw, nips on the skin there and licks it in a sort of apology when Daryl’s breath comes in a shuddering inhale. “I wanna stare right at them as I fuck you, Daryl, good Lord, I’ve wanted to touch you for fucking ever, but these? I look at them and I can’t even control myself anymore… God, is this blasphemy? What the fuck am I doing, Daryl? What are we doing?...”

“Kiss me,” Daryl pleads and Rick groans, then kisses him again like this is something he waited his whole life for. And maybe it is, and maybe Daryl waited for it, too, since the beginning of time. Blasphemy or not, with their lips and their bodies aligned, it feels like destiny, like the two of them getting it on is a part of some grander Plan.

Rick repositions himself on top of Daryl, wedges himself between Daryl's thighs and grinds down against him, and both of them moan into one another's mouths. Rick's one hand is still busy running maddening caresses over the expanse of the wing he can reach; the other hurriedly moves down Daryl's body, impatient, and settles on the buckle of his belt. It fumbles with the opening and Daryl growls, breaking the kiss, and opens his belt himself, then whines softly when Rick slaps his hands out of the way, pushes his pants down as far as he can with Daryl's legs spread to accommodate him, and wraps his fingers around Daryl's cock.

“These sounds you're making,” Rick says and bites down on Daryl's shoulder, making him groan and buck his hips. Rick's grip on his cock is relentless, but he's just sort of holding it in his hand, and it's not enough, Daryl needs him to _do something_ or he's going to implode.

“Tell me what you want, angel,” Rick demands and Daryl feels more blood rushing downstairs at the hunger he detects in the man's voice. It's too goddamn hot and Daryl can't help himself, he moves his hips to thrust into the tight fist around him. But Rick hisses and lets go of him, and uses both hands to pin Daryl's hips

“Tell me,” Rick growls and it's an order, one that goes directly to Daryl's cock, and he has to obey because it's Rick commanding him. It's not like his imagination is not already supplying him with ideas about what exactly he wants. It's not like doing what Rick tells him is a hardship. So:

“Please,” he whimpers, and, “s-suck my cock,” he pleads and he's sure he's blushing and his face must look stupid, but Rick's eyes darken as he looks at him, and then Rick's kissing him, all teeth and tongue and dominance, and Daryl kisses back the best he can because he refuses to be swept away-

Then Rick breaks the kiss and shifts and moves purposefully down his body, settles down between Daryl's thighs, nuzzles his hip. He looks up at Daryl and his eyes are dark with arousal, nothing but a sliver of the most startling blue around wide pupils, and Daryl can't look away as he watches the man lick his lips before his hands push heavily on Daryl's hips, bows his head and wraps his lips around the head of Daryl's cock. Daryl moans and slaps a hand against his mouth to muffle the needy noise, settles his other hand on the back of Rick's head and tangles it in the man's curly hair. Rick hums appreciatively and the vibration of the sound makes Daryl's cock twitch. God, but this is pure bliss, the way Rick holds him down and teases at the tip of his cock, licks and sucks and places tiny kisses that would be almost innocent anywhere else but are downright _filthy_ down there and _how_ can this feel so fucking good? And then Rick wraps a hand around the base of Daryl's cock and takes him deeper into the warm cavern of his mouth, and Daryl's thighs tremble and he sobs into the palm of his hand, his fingers tighten in Rick's hair, and Rick's left hand that was pressing on his hip is gone somewhere so Daryl thrusts up, eager to feel more, and then Rick swallows around him and rubs a spot behind Daryl's balls and, and Daryl can't-

Too soon, he comes with a drawn-out moan, spilling into Rick's eager mouth, and his entire body sort of erupts into a mindless, whiteout bliss that seems to last for an eternity. When it's over, he feels boneless, like his body is nothing but a shivering mess of primordial goo in the wake of the explosive pleasure Rick's given him. He is vaguely aware of movement and he has to make an effort to follow Rick with his eyes as the man slides back on top of him and coerces a kiss out of his bite-swollen lips. The taste of Daryl on Rick's tongue is foreign, bitter and salty, not pleasant but also not unpleasant; Daryl wonders what Rick tastes like, if he tastes better, and he must, he definitely tastes better, and now Daryl's mouth waters and he wants to taste Rick.

“Wanna touch ya,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse and his vowels dragging even more than usual.

Rick chuckles softly, a warm puff of breath against Daryl's jaw. “Next time, love,” he says and he sounds slightly breathless. When Daryl squints at him, confused, Rick shows him his left hand which he very obviously removes from beneath the waistband of his pants. Daryl's eyes widen and he grabs Rick's wrist, lifts Rick's hand to his mouth and laps up the pearly liquid covering his fingers. Rick doesn't really taste different than he does, and yet he does, and it's better, so much better than his own taste; Daryl feels like he's going to become addicted to the taste of Rick on his tongue, and to the warmth of Rick's body against his, and to the sinful caress of Rick's mouth on his when they kiss. Is this what sex is always like? God, he didn't know, _he didn't know_.

Rick helps him fix his disheveled state and they settle down wrapped in each other. Daryl's wings tingle. He can feel them acutely, he can almost control them again. It's not going to take long for them to completely recover. Hours now. He already regrets it; he likes how fascinated Rick still seems with them. He wonders if there will ever be enough privacy back home for him to spread the wings out for Rick's viewing pleasure.

He'll fucking make sure of that, even if he has to nail the bedroom doors shut to keep intruders out.

“Hope you won't regret this later,” Rick says. He trails a finger over Daryl's collarbone. “I've been wanting to do this to you for so long it's ridiculous, but if you're gonna regret it...”

“Mmm,” Daryl hums softly. He doesn't question Rick's easy confession, he just lets the warmth it causes spread through his face and chest like a sappy bitch. His entire body feels more relaxed than he ever remembers it being. It makes him forget all about shyness and just go along with the flow. It's just Rick, after all. Rick who gave him his first kiss and his first blowjob and his first _goddamn amazing_ orgasm. There's nothing he has to be shy about. He's got nothing to hide from Rick anymore. No more secrets between them. It feels like freedom.

“Ain't regrettin' nuthin'. Well, nuthin' 'bout this,” he clarifies. “Kinda regrettin' not kickin' yer ass for all that stupid shit ya do. Seems like only way t'get ya not get killed like a dumb fuck.”

Rick laughs into his neck. “I've got you to save my ass,” he notes, amused and amazed both. Suddenly, he frowns and disentangles himself from Daryl, puts some distance between them which is frankly unbearable, and looks at him all serious.

“Daryl... Is it because you have to ?” He asks, and there's a note of distress to his tone, like he's sickened by the idea that maybe Daryl's driven by some compulsion to – what, have sex with him? - just because it's his job. At least Daryl guesses the man's thinking something along these lines. It's so typically Rick, to over-think a good thing until it starts to tear at the seams. Granted, it's a quality that's saved him and their family more often than not, but now? Now it's unwelcome.

“Ain't hafta nuthin',” Daryl promises him. “With them dead'uns risin' started, all guardian angels got the boot. Supposed to be like, up there, joinin' the army, polishin' the flamin' sword, that sorta thin'. Ya know, final battle, the goddamn Apocalypse, Heaven versus Hell, all that crap.”

Rick stares at him, mouth agape.

“Kinda figured war ain't my style,” Daryl adds, shrugging his shoulders somewhat sheepishly. “This thin' ain't the Apocalypse anyway. Don't feel right. Ain't like the Guy Upstairs at all.”

“You,” Rick says. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, like he needs to clear it to get it all to make sense. Like he's having trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that Daryl basically rebelled against his brethren in Heaven to stay with him. “You're something else, aren't you?”

“Maybe,” Daryl agrees, feeling a smirk tug at the corners of his lips. “Yer lucky, though. Wouldn't make it a day there if I went. Woulda got yerself killed the moment I ain't been there watchin' yer sorry ass.”

Rick sighs and plops back down half on top of him unceremoniously, like it's his birthright to wrap himself in Daryl's arms. It sort of is, as far as Daryl is concerned.

“So what you're saying is,” he pauses and licks his lips. Daryl watches him do it. His mouth might water at the sight. “What you're saying is,” Rick repeats, “you defied a direct order to abandon post from some angelic higher ups and stayed around because you're convinced the dead walking doesn't mean it's the end of times or something?”

“Nah, dumbass,” Daryl scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Ain't ya listenin'? Stayed 'cuz yer a goddamn fuckin' nightmare. Woulda gotten bit or eaten without me.”

“Why did it matter though? If I'm no longer your duty,” Rick asks, confused.

“Fuck, were ya always this stupid?” Daryl mutters. He flexes his wings, noting with satisfaction he has almost full control over them. Not long now. He catches Rick looking at the wings, transfixed, and he feels a fond smile spreading across his lips.

“Yer _**my**_ fuckin' nightmare,” he says.

And all of Lord's angels above, every fucking demon below and the entire goddamn end of times can suck it.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I've given way too much thought into the worldbuilding for what was supposed to be simple smut. I do that sometimes. I hope it was enjoyable!  
> No promises, but angel!Daryl might make an appearance in a follow-up fic sometime. He's quite fun to write ;)


End file.
